


It's not the long walk home that will change this heart but the welcome I receive with the restart

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hugs, M/M, Post Reichenbach, idek kinda fluffy?, john is not going to put up with your shit sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:47:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years pass and John feels like the world underneath him won't stop spinning. Then suddenly he gets a package that makes him faint and photographs in the mail, and quickly it's like Sherlock Holmes hasn't left at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's not the long walk home that will change this heart but the welcome I receive with the restart

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to write fluff and this is what came out. Oops.  
> Also mannnn can they just hurry up with Series Three already or what?  
> Happy Valentine's Day! Eat lots of chocolate, or if that't not your thing, eat whatever the hell makes you the happiest.  
> Not beta'd and written kinda quickly, apologies.

John Watson moves into a small cottage about an hour outside of London not all that longer after Sherlock Holmes jumps off of the roof of St. Bart's Hospital.

It was maybe a month or so after this that John finally felt like he could move his muscles again, rather than remaining immobile in one of the chairs at Baker Street, save for the occasional shaking of his hands. After another few months, Baker Street suddenly became unbearable, stifling and...dead. Sherlock was supposedly dead, John felt dead, and effectively, the once energetic atmosphere of 221B Baker Street had died as well.

Mrs. Hudson was understanding and did little but force John to promise to visit and often. John felt guilty, knowing she couldn't escape as well, but Mrs. Hudson just looked on sympathetically. John didn't talk to anyone else, just loaded as much as he could into a taxi cab and left.

 

When John visits Sherlock's grave for the second time, it's on the two year anniversary of when he and Sherlock first met.

As his hand rests on the smooth surface of the gravestone, fingers tracing along the grooves of the etching in the stone, John feels an eerie sense of displacement from himself. It's maybe the fact that he's at Sherlock's grave at about 8 at night even though it's the dead of winter and his face feels like it's going to fall off, or it could be that suddenly he's the type of person that _does_ things like this, has a grave to visit at odd hours and remorse to feel as it twists it's way into his stomach like a knife. The freezing air has somehow gotten under his coat and his fingers feel numb as he jabs them into the stone.

John fights the overwhelming urge to kick at something and instead thinks, _Two years...it's really only been two years since I met him._ His thoughts trail off really into nothing in particular, other than that it's fucking cold and frankly, he's miserable.

John hates this. He hates feeling sorry for himself. He hates Sherlock, for a lot of things. He _wants_ to hate Sherlock for coming into his life, but mostly, he hates Sherlock because he won't come back.

 

The third time it's in the middle of the summer heat and John clothes cling to his body with sweat. It's been a year since Sherlock disappeared. Mrs. Hudson is with him and they're both swatting the gnats away from their faces and mumbling about the _impossible_ humidity, and John realizes halfway through his conversation with Mrs. Hudson that he's looking for clues around the graveyard.

He kicks at the dirt beneath his feet with the toe of his shoe and sheepishly runs a hand through his hair, looking around. Everything feels normal, but John is still scanning and trying to notice if anything's out of place.

_Or maybe,_ says a small voice in his head, _Maybe Sherlock's left something for you._

John doesn't see anything though, not a twig or flower out of place. Bitterly he thinks to himself that even if something had changed, even if there was something there for him to _deduce_ , John's not Sherlock, so he probably wouldn't notice anyway.

 

The fourth time, John doesn't go. It's been three years since he met Sherlock. It's 4am in the morning, the evening that John had planned to visit the graveyard on has long since past. John has drunk himself into a stupor and is passed out on his bed.

For some reason, this time, there had been a panic settling so low in his chest that it gripped and clenched his very bones, and soon he had been scrambling for a glass of _something_ , just to shake that feeling away. It didn't go away, no matter how much John drank. Even as the cottage walls began to spin into a blur and John was instinctively grasping blindly for a hand that he knew he wouldn't find, John maneuvered his way into his bed, falling down onto the bedsheets that quickly became wet with tears underneath his eyes.

When John finally woke up once again, even his hangover couldn't drown out the feeling of shame that rapidly washed over him.

 

The fifth time it's summer again, two years after Sherlock died. John doesn't have the energy or even the will to hope that answers will blossom in front of him anymore. A whispering doubt has begun to sneak into his mind and he feels old, so much older than before. He aches under the weight of mumbled prayers and blurry dreams. Ghosts still dance behind his eyelids when he goes to sleep at night, and they remain there throughout the day after he wakes, playing like illusions in the shadows.

The sun bears down on the back of his head and John twists a daisy between his fingers. He says softly to the graveyard, to the air, and to a pale face in his mind's eye, "I think I'm just going to have to accept for all intents and purposes, you are dead."

In the end, John leaves earlier than he intended because he has the unnerving feeling that he's being watched. John notices a raven perched atop the entrance of the graveyard when he leaves and hums quietly to himself.

 

The sixth and seventh times it's 2014 and John doesn't go at all.

Sometimes when John's doing the dishes at the cottage, he'll mumble to himself until he realizes he's talking out loud, and not only that but talking to Sherlock as well. At first, it's really quite embarrassing, but John figures since no one can hear him and it is rather therapeutic, to just close his eyes and imagine Sherlock is behind him, leaning against the kitchen counter, soon his mouth moves of it's own accord in time with the thoughts that are rattling around in his brain.

_"Hmm...I met a woman today, Sherlock. Well, I'm not about to say 'oh, you'd like her Sherlock', because God knows you wouldn't. You'd find her dull. But I like her. Her name's Mary."_

"I know you'd think it was boring, but Mary and I went out for lunch today. It was really nice. It might be a bit sad, but she doesn't look at me oddly like I've come to look at myself. She actually told me today that she finds me interesting. I laughed at her, because what a strange thing, for a person to find me interesting."

"Mary's quite lovely, Sherlock. I know you'd torment her, but I think she'd be able to handle it. I know she's curious, but she doesn't seem to mind when I don't want to talk about you. I think in the end, you would've liked her."

"Mary and I, today when we went out for-"

"Well, when she puts it that way, I can see how a couple would-"

"It's the fact that, well, I'd like to find the proper ring and I-"

Sometimes John's eyes are bloodshot and sometimes he's not doing the dishes at all, when he talks to Sherlock. Sometimes he's just lying in bed by himself, even though he's mostly been living at Mary's for the last four months, but tonight something finally broke between the two of them. Something shattered and John's not sure he has the energy to put it back, and maybe that's really what it's all about? John hasn't had the energy to do anything in _years_. John is back at the cottage, huddled underneath several blankets in his bed, and he whispers into his pillow,

_"Sherlock Holmes, I think in the end, somehow you completely ruined me. Because whenever I look at people, I only see ghosts, and whenever they look at me, they only see an empty shell."_

 

The eighth time it's January 29th, 2015. It's been five years since John Watson and Sherlock Holmes met and just slightly over three years since Sherlock died. But something's different this time.

First it's that John sees footprints in the snow leading up to Sherlock's gravestone when he arrives. He assumes it's Mrs. Hudson or Mycroft, or maybe even Lestrade, but when he looks down at the footprints, his brow furrows.

Something's off.

And then, when he reaches the grave, there's a piece of paper tucked underneath a stone at the base of the headstone.

For a moment John hears his blood rushing in his ears and he feels faint, but he bends down to pick up the slip of paper, forcing his fingers not to tremble.

_Don't hold your breath,_ says the voice in his head scathingly, but John does anyway.

On the note is written what appears to be a phone number. John stares at it in disbelief, slightly disappointed.

It must be a prank, or something for Mycroft. Still, John tucks the paper into his coat pocket and shuffles back to the car. He doesn't allow himself to think about it as he drives back to the cottage, but once there, his mind begins to race.

John leaves the number on his coffee table for two days, deliberating. Suddenly though, it's February and John feels like he has to do _something_ , so he settles on texting the number rather than calling and a discreet, simple "hello?" as the message.

He gets a response back within a few minutes.

**Hello John.**

John sort of yelps and drops the phone of the floor, before quickly scrambling to retrieve it from underneath the couch.

**Who is this?**

**I can't tell you that.**

John frowns.

John frowns. He's in the middle of replying back with, **What the hell do you mean you can't-** , when the phone buzzes in his hand and another text comes through.

**What I CAN tell you is that the postman will be ringing your door momentarily. I'd answer it.**

John has barely a second to furrow his brow again before the doorbell rings. The sound bounces off the walls of the small cottage and John's heart pounds in his chest as he sits, frozen to the couch. Then, something in him snaps and he hastily throws his phone to the side, running to the door.

"Uh yeah, package for John Watson?" The postman says, snapping a piece of gum in his mouth after he speaks. His bright blue eyes sparkle underneath his uniform hat, but John is too engrossed in his own thoughts and the package that's being pushed in his hands to notice. He simply rushes through signing off for the package, muttering a thanks, and completely misses the postman grinning at him as he shuts the door.

John rips open the package on the doorstep, letting the wrapping fall to the floor. Inside is a box, and inside the box is...a deerstalker. John's heart flutters wildly in his chest when he realizes _he's definitely seen this particular hat before._

John Hamish Watson, military background and all, man with a heart of steel, takes one last glance at the hideous cap in his hands, and faints.

 

The following day, the second of February, John wakes up to a text of, **Everything alright?**

John doesn't even know where to start. He sits on his bed, fingers twisting around his bed sheets, staring at his phone. In the end, he settles on several choice words that eventually begin roll into one another, turning into one, massive angry text message. Angry might not even begin to cover it, and it's after the fifth time he's typed out, _"you fucking idiot"_ that he realizes if Sherlock was in the room right now with him, John would be screaming.

He sends three more messages after it's apparent he's not getting a reply back, hands shaking as he taps them out. John knows there's an undercurrent of desperation and that he's coming off as a bit unhinged, because what if it's really not Sherlock? What if it's some elaborate prank or better yet, just an accident?

John's mouth twists into a grimace, but he hits "send" anyway, throwing his phone back on to the pillow next to him and sighing heavily.

John goes about his day, restraining himself from checking his phone for a reply more than he actually wants to, but his phone is silent.

By evening, John calls the number. It takes five minutes before John accepts that it won't go to voicemail. 

He even makes a half-hearted attempt at doing a search for the number, but it's really no use. John's fooling himself if he thinks he could trace it anyway, and besides, Sherlock is too clever for that.

 

On February 3rd, the day passes once again in silence. John absolutely hates it. He writes in an attempt to take his mind off of everything, but to no avail. He wonders if maybe, by some miracle, Sherlock actually isn't lying cold in his grave and is instead out in the world somewhere. John wonders if the reason Sherlock isn't responding is because he's simply just busy; John imagines he would've kept up his work, this time in anonymity, so maybe Sherlock's just busy kicking some poor soul's face in or irritating the foreign police force. Maybe Sherlock's not busy at all and he's changed his mind - he doesn't want to talk to John anymore. John grips at the hem of his sweater when he thinks this, shivering, and presses his thumb into his wrist.

John wonders if Sherlock's out there, twiddling his phone in his hands, in a similar situation that John is - having no idea what to say next.

He resists the urge to throw his phone against the wall and goes back to writing.

 

On February 4th, John is halfway through making a grocery list when his phone buzzes.

**You're out of milk, by the way.**

John checks his fridge and, of course, he is.

He adds it to the bottom of the list and doesn't reply.

Later that day, John leaves his phone on his desk and goes for a walk out in the snow. When he finally returns, he's surprised to see that he'd been gone for four hours - it's dark and the only light on in his house is his desk lamp.

He makes dinner and checks his phone, almost dropping the soup ladle into the boiling pot when he sees that he's missed _twenty seven_ text messages.

They're all from the same number, too.

John worries his bottom lip between his teeth and decides to finish dinner before he checks the messages.

**Did you pick up the milk yet?**

**The brand of tea you recently got really does taste better with milk in it.**

**John?**

**Alright, you're ignoring me. Fair enough, I suppose.**

**John, this is important.**

**Ok, not just about the milk, but John, please.**

**Did you drop your phone behind your bed again? Last time that drove you up the wall for DAYS.**

**Don't be a child John, you can't ignore me forever.**

**I wasn't ignoring YOU, so you don't have to be so petty about it.**

**You're being really annoying.**

**John, please talk to me.**

**There is an explanation and I will give it, but now isn't the time. I need to know you're safe. John, if you would just text me back I can-**

Then come several messages that are variations of attempts to coax John out of his "rather irritating stubbornness." Maybe under "normal" circumstances and once upon a time John would've found this extremely humorous, because towards the end Sherlock begins to seem like he's _begging_. But that wouldn't be at all like the great Sherlock Holmes, John thinks.

Right now, John is simply tired from his walk, tired from the years he spent for the most part on his own, and tired of _this_.

**I wasn't ignoring you, Sherlock. I went for a walk and left my phone behind. Don't worry.**

John's phone buzzes almost immediately.

**I wasn't worrying.**

**...okay. Well, I'm going to bed.**

John thinks to himself before typing out another message.

**I know you'll have a great explanation for all of this, and somewhere in there, I'll probably be able to detect a hint of apology, no matter how hard you try to deny it. You've heard most of my side by now and I assume you can imagine the rest. I missed you, Sherlock, not the games.**

An hour later, John is tucking himself into bed. His phone blinks at him with a new text. John sighs and thinks, _He really will outlive God trying to get the last word in..._

**I don't know if this has occurred to you, but it's not just about you. I will explain everything to you, when the time is right. There are still some things to be sorted and in the end I will "enlighten" you with the details, but for now, just let me have this.**

Anger licks its way hotly up John's spine. He grits his teeth and bemoans the fact that, of course, Sherlock would have to put him in a bad mood before bed.

 

On February 5th, John wonders what his therapist would say about this.

He had continued to go for a while once he moved out of London, but once he had met Mary and things seemed to be looking up, Ella had let his visits dwindle to a bare minimum, until John no longer felt compelled to go.

John sits in a armchair, reading the paper when, like always, Sherlock somehow intuitively knew his thoughts.

**How are you so confident it's actually me? I could be an impostor. Anyone can buy a hat.**

John sips his coffee and thinks carefully. Why was he so confident it was Sherlock on the other side of the text messages? Was it just because of the package, or the sense of familiarity that resonated from the texts, something that John thought even Sherlock couldn't shake off of his words.

In the end, he settles on-

**Only you would text me something like "stop sulking John, you're acting like Anderson did whenever I got him kicked out of a crime scene." Besides, I realize now it was you at the door. You were the postman. Very clever, that.**

**Now you sound like you're sulking about that. I was just testing you. It's nice to see that your skills of deduction haven't increased in the slightest over the years, in fact, I think they've probably even fallen below Lestrade's. That's not good, John.**

Despite himself, John laughs into his cup of coffee. It's so like Sherlock, to disappear for three months and have John emotionally torn to shreds, and then to return and continue to banter with him like nothing had happened.

Despite everything, John feels momentarily elated.

 

On February 6th, John finally goes grocery shopping. He's walking down the condiments aisle with his cart when he's _positive_ he sees Sherlock at the end by the dairy section.

He lurches his cart forward and is about to call out when the man turns and...no, no it's definitely not Sherlock.

Disappointment floods through John before he can help himself and his legs tremble. The man looks at him curiously and asks, "Can I help you?" John's sure his face looks crestfallen because the only emotion he can feel is that, and humiliation. But no, the stranger's eyes are the wrong color and his hair, although a curly black, is slicked back. The face is all wrong and his voice is wrong, and John barely manages to keep the stifling bitterness out of his voice when he says, "No, sorry, I thought you were someone else.

When he returns home, there's a new text from Sherlock that reads, **You forgot the milk.**

John stares blankly at his phone and before he knows it, he's once again shaking with anger as he punches in Sherlock's number. It rings, and on the third ring, Sherlock does pick up.

John is about to open his mouth to _scream_ at Sherlock, but something stops him, halting his voice. It's Sherlock's breathing on the other end of the line, which, after a sharp inhalation of breath, turned shaky and...nervous? After a few seconds, John hears Sherlock mumble something incoherently and the line goes dead.

Something boils inside of John's chest. He takes one last look at his phone, then at the groceries that are spilling off of the kitchen counter, and he then hurtles his phone with as much force as he can across the room and against the wall. It shatters, pieces skirting across the floor. John lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding in. He's sure his face is red and he doesn't want to think about what he's just done. Instead, he bites the inside of his cheek before saying out loud, coldly, "Well, there you go, Sherlock."

On February 7th, the first photograph arrives in John's mailbox.

He had woken up that morning with some feelings of regret over the loss of his phone, but stubbornness was holding him back from ordering a new one. He still felt so angry, not just because it felt to him like Sherlock was teasing him, but also because he had built himself up for three years for something that couldn't just easily resolve itself. No, nothing with Sherlock Holmes was ever _easy_.

But when he goes and checks the mail, he finds the photograph. It's a photo of himself, visiting John's grave, and John can tell from what he's wearing (as well as the expression on his face) that it's the first time he visited Sherlock's grave.

On the back, in sprawling handwriting is written, _Thank you._

It's a terrible photograph of him, John decides. One can clearly see that his eyes are red and swollen despite the grainy quality of the picture. Still, it feels heavy in John's hand and his eyes keep running over the note on the back. _Thank you._

John laughs softly to himself.

 

On February 8th, John spends the whole day out of the house. On a whim, he calls up Mary, who is surprised to hear from him but not ungrateful. They agree on lunch and John manages to actually enjoy her company.

They chat aimlessly and John realizes that it's nice to hear someone else's voice, not his own, whispering the things he wished he'd said years ago to blank, white walls. Mary's voice is warm and it wraps around him, and he knows this is why he had fallen in love with her to begin with. She made him forget, for the most part, the things he didn't want to think about.

But even Mary couldn't keep Sherlock Holmes out of his brain.

When John returns home that evening, the second photograph has been slipped through the mail slot on his door. It's a photo of John curled up in his armchair in front of the fire place, sipping a mug of something-or-other and reading the paper. The message on the back says, _Miss you._ John can tell the message is old, because the pen is faded and there's also a sticky note next to the note on the back of the photograph that reads, _Something happen to your phone?_

John rolls his eyes and puts the fragments of his broken phone in a bowl on the front doorstep.

 

On February 9th, John goes out once again. Lestrade shows up on his doorstep right before dinner time, and John barely has time to get over the surprise before Lestrade is cutting him off, saying, "Well, I tried to call you but it didn't ring through and I thought, since I was in the area, I'd see what you were up to. Want to get a drink?"

Lestrade then notices the bowl and frowns. Before he can ask, John is grabbing his coat and saying, "Yeah, of course! No, I'm completely free."

They go to a local bar that John hasn't been to before but apparently Lestrade has. Lestrade orders their drinks, then turns to John and says, "I can't believe it's already been over a year since we last saw each other! It used to be I'd see you nearly every day." He searches John's face for something, so John forces a smile and a slight chuckle. Lestrade doesn't look convinced.

"Yeah, well, getting away from London really meant cutting myself off."

"How has that been, by the way?"

John thinks for a few moments, before replying, "It's been good, most of the time. It's given me a lot of room to think, and to breathe." He swallows. "But, I miss London."

Lestrade laughs, his eyes crinkle slightly. John suddenly feels wistful.

Their drinks come and Lestrade sips on his for a few moments before adding, "But you do look better, you know. You don't look as weary as the last time I saw you."

_Really,_ John thinks. _Because I feel more weary than ever, right now._ John realizes he's been waiting for the reassuring buzz of one of Sherlock's texts in his pocket, and suddenly he really does regret breaking his phone.

As the night progresses, he almost does tell Lestrade about Sherlock. Lestrade is a friend, after all, and yet, John wants to keep this too himself. He feels the desire, now more than ever, to keep Sherlock to himself.

When Lestrade gets up to use the bathroom, the bartender pushes another drink in John's direction. John's about to say, "I didn't order this", but the bartender moves to the other end of the counter. John sighs, then notices that something is stuck to the bottom of the glass.

It's another photograph, this time of the day when John moved out of Baker Street. He and Mrs. Hudson are hugging, and John can't see his own face, but Mrs. Hudson's is tearful. Guilt twists in John's stomach. After further inspection, John notices that he can see the Lestrade's leg in the background as he's stepping out of frame. Lestrade had helped him pack that day, even though John didn't ask him.

On the back is written, _My friends._

 

On February 10th, John writes a new post on his blog for the first time in over three years.

He makes it private, though, because he knows that somehow Sherlock will see it. He's tempted to make the passcode lock on the entry something like "sherlockholmesisanasshole" but he instead chooses to make it the date that Sherlock "died".

_Sherlock,_

_I assume that by now you are aware that I broke my phone. Don't make that face, it's really annoying._  
I imagine that wherever you are, it's much nicer than where I am and not as drafty as this damn house is. I know you've been here, so you'll understand that this house is a complete failure during the winter. I don't know why I'm here, other than that I couldn't stand to be at Baker Street for very long after you left.  
I...I don't know what I want to do now, from this point on. I know I want to see you and I know you're still bent on remaining mysterious or whatever, but you should know I'm not sure how much longer I can take this.  
I miss you. There are things I want to tell you but I want to say them to your face, not my computer screen.  
Also you're such an asshole. 

_\- J_

The fourth photograph arrives as an anonymous comment on his post. It's an image of a vase of flowers, white daises, lilacs, and one giant sunflower on John's kitchen table. Beneath the photo is, "Happy Birthday. I don't think you noticed, which is just yet another comment on your tragic observational skills. You'll improve, hopefully, some day. Perhaps this day, though, it had something to do with you being drunk."

John laughs, and remembers. It had been his most recent birthday, and John _had_ actually noticed the flowers, despite what Sherlock thought. However, he had assumed it had been a gift from Mary.

Something warm pools in his stomach when he pictures Sherlock breaking into his house with a vase of flowers and John giggles to himself. It's such a silly image and John bites down on his lip to prevent himself from laughing. John has lost all sense of normalcy long ago and instead, John's mouth curls into uncontrollable smile.

 

On February 11th, it snows so heavily that really it's more of a blizzard.

John watches the telly and makes too much hot chocolate, kicking himself for also forgetting to buy marshmallows.

He hums and meanders around the house. The warm feeling from the day before still hasn't left his chest.

He hears nothing from Sherlock during the day, so he makes another blog post that's only a subject line of _"this snow, huh?"_

Within five minutes there's a comment.

_There's a child across the road from me making snow angels. He has your taste in hideous sweaters._

John rolls his eyes.

_Really? I can barely see outside of my window._

_That might be a good thing. Your neighbors still haven't taken down their Christmas decorations. Not that giant, inflatable Santas aren't irritating during the holiday season as well._

_You sound even more cranky than usual. Everything alright?_

_No. This snow is annoying and preventing me from my work._

John laughs.

_New case?_

_No, you._

John's breath stutters to a halt and his heart sounds impossibly loud in his ears. He thinks he's blushing and for the first time in the last week, John is extremely grateful that Sherlock _isn't_ with him.

 

On February 12th, the snow has stopped and the fifth and six photographs arrive, neatly tucked into an unmarked envelope in his mailbox.

John opens them outside, the winter sun glaring down on the back of his head. He squints agains the glint of the sun on the snow, and sees that this day's photographs are one of him and Mary, and one of Sherlock's gravestone.

In the one of John and Mary, they are at dinner and holding hands. John feels anxiousness ripple through him and he almost feels a little guilty. He flips the photo over but sees that this time, there isn't a note on the back.

The other is a stark, black and white image of Sherlock's grave. With a chill that isn't from the weather, John realizes that it must have been taken during the year he didn't go, the year he was with Mary.

On the back is written a date, _15/06/14_ , and _"you deserve the best, John."_

Both of the photos are very worn, torn and folded at the edges. John frowns and hurries back inside.

He opens up his blog.

_In the end, it's always you. I'd think you would know that._

It takes two hours before John reads Sherlock's reply.

_I can't always give you what you need._

John huffs.

_I don't need anything more than you can give. There's only one thing I want, Sherlock, and it's you._

John wishes he could see Sherlock's face. The need to see Sherlock's face, the desire to see if he reacts to John's words is so overwhelming that John's hands curl against his sides in discomfort.

_I miss you, John. I'm allowing myself these things and making such outrageous concessions that I wouldn't for anyone else, but I miss you._

_In any regard, Mrs. Hudson, unlike you, did not faint. Baker Street has now slipped back into a boring quiet, and it's dreadful. Deplorable._

_Come home._

 

On February 13th, something clicks inside John. Like a switch or a cog turning into place, and suddenly John finds himself hauling into the car and driving back to London.

He doesn't take anything with him, just drives until the day turns into night. When he finally pulls up at Baker Street, his heart is thudding so loudly in his chest that he's amazed it can't be heard all down the street. It's snowing really hard too, so when John steps out of the car, his hair is instantly coated in a blanket of snowflakes.

He hadn't grabbed his coat either, so the time between when John rings the doorbell and when the door finally opens is spent shivering into one of his sweaters (the cream coloured one, which is the one that Sherlock once proclaimed he disliked the least).

And then before John really has any time to prepare himself, the door opens and yeah, there's Sherlock Holmes.

For a long moment, they just stand there, staring at each other. Sherlock's curly hair becomes dotted with snowflakes as well, and John notes that he looks aged, in a worn kind of way. He supposes he himself does as well, if the emotion shocking through Sherlock's eyes is anything to go by. John's lost his breath and his hands are shaking, and Sherlock suddenly looks impossibly young and impossibly happy.

Sherlock opens his arms, but before John processes that Sherlock _might_ be going in for a hug, John swiftly punches the other man square in the face.

Sherlock stumbles back, quickly grabbing at his face and letting out a yelp of surprise. John's fist tingles but he can feel a grin unfurling across his face. When Sherlock looks up at him, a bruise is already forming across his cheek. "What, what was that-"

"That. I have been waiting to do _that_ for three fucking years, Sherlock." John says, still grinning. "Also this."

John hesitates for a breath, then surges forward and captures Sherlock's lips with his own.

He can feel Sherlock's body startle underneath his which makes him just press harder, grabbing the front of Sherlock's shirt in his hand. But soon Sherlock is pushing back with just as much force. His body is shaking and it takes John a few moments to realize that Sherlock is _laughing_.

They are breathless when they pull away, but Sherlock soon pulls John back in to press his nose into the crook of John's neck.

"I bought you a new phone." Sherlock whispers into his neck, voice low and deep. So deep that John can feel himself falling, and he would say that he hadn't realized how much he missed Sherlock's voice except for the fact that he did - each and every inch of his body that had missed Sherlock's stupid voice, cheekbones, and hair was vibrating with the thrill of holding this man in his arms once again.

John laughs. "Thank you, because it definitely is your fault that the last one got broken."

"Oh is it now?" Sherlock's eyes glint in light of the street lamps. He frowns down at John and says, "John, you're shivering, come inside."

They both know that it's not just shivering but also shaking, but then again the both of them are shaking. Their hands remain entwined, feet tripping over each other as they stumble inside. John can hear Mrs. Hudson clinking around in the kitchen and even though Baker Street is emptier than the last time he was here, when he looks over at Sherlock (who is still holding his hand), it seems more like home than ever.

Sherlock catches him looking and tugs him into another kiss. Slower and softer than the last, sweet like honey against his lips, and when Sherlock whispers, "Welcome home, John", he feels himself laughing against Sherlock's cheek.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by listening to Mumford & Sons on a bus ride back home.  
> Written whilst listening to Explosions in the Sky, WHAT A GREAT BAND.  
> Dedicated to my Samwise. Happy Valentine's Day. :)


End file.
